


Backwards and in High Heels

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Boston Legal
Genre: Contest, Dancing, M/M, dance, salsa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denny enters a dance contest.  At a gay bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backwards and in High Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in "Denny Crane!" 4 by Agent With Style press.
> 
> "The Masochism Tango" is by the wonderful Tom Lehrer.

Denny Crane strode into the lobby of Crane, Poole and Schmidt with the air of a man who has conquered the highest mountains, the deepest seas, the furthest reaches of space. And, after all, he'd been told by that psychic he had an existence as a starship captain, so all of these things were possible. He was, after all, Denny Crane. And on that morning, he had found a new world still unconquered by him, but one that in short order would be his prize just as the seas, the mountains, and the courts of Massachusetts already were.

He was so pleased by this discovery of a new feat of daring to be undertaken and won that he hummed his way past Carl Sack without even giving his new target of irritation a second glance. Carl was shocked enough to run to Shirley Schmidt's office to announce that Denny had definitely entered advanced senility if he could walk into the firm without a harsh word to or about Carl, right in his face.

Denny strode, in fact, directly to Alan Shore's office, where law clerk Clarence Bell was thumbing through printed-out copies of cases he'd found on Westlaw, and was helping Alan mark various paragraphs with yellow highlighter. Alan was deep in the midst of an appellate brief on an adultery conviction – not his, as he'd felt forced to tell Shirley when his client requested the appeal. Only in Massachusetts was adultery still on the criminal books, and no one got charged with it any more; his client, who'd been caught with his pants down by an angry wife with a cell phone camera, wanted to fight, and Alan didn't blame the man. Denny blew in past stacks of research and mountains of Northeastern Reporter cases, ignoring everything but Alan.

"Alan." 

"Denny. To what do I owe this sudden welcome intrusion? Have you come to share your wealth of personal experience on the subject of adultery, or have you some other excitement in store? I can use the break." Alan stared at his coffee mug, already drained. "Clarence, could you possibly? The thought of adultery first thing in the morning requires more caffeine than I currently have in me. The thought of committing it first thing in the morning is even more fatiguing, and now that Denny is here with me, I can't possibly avoid the idea."

Clarence laughed. Alan liked his laugh; it was always hearty and sincere, even when Clarence was in a skirt and heels. Today he was in a business suit like the rest of the Crane, Poole and Schmidt world. Alan was apparently the only lawyer in the firm who cheerfully would have let Clarence wear all the skirts he wanted to the office. He liked Clarence's alter ego Clarice, he liked Oprah, he liked all of Clarence's personalities, and the man did good work in anything he wore. He'd thought that Shirley would have had less objection than she did, but apparently she felt that Clarice's sharp sense of style was too close to rivaling her own since even she seemed perturbed by Clarice's appearances in the office. "I need more myself. Coffee, Mr. Crane?"

"Thank you, Clarence. I'd appreciate that." Denny eased himself into Alan's leather sofa as Clarence ran for coffee. "Alan, I have a brilliant idea."

"I shudder to think of the degree of brilliance with which you are about to dazzle me." Alan leaned forward, head propped up on a hand. "Impress me, oh master."

Ripples of pleasure shot along Denny's spine, and his torso displayed the fact in a most fascinating manner as he wriggled. "I love it when you call me that," he purred with almost too much satisfaction. "It reminds me of the night before last."

"And the night before last reminds *me* that I've found new places not to get rope burns. But I digress. What do you have in mind?"

Denny crowed in triumph. "A ballroom dance contest. I've already signed us up for it. We can win it, Alan. I'm the greatest dancer on the planet, and you're not bad, either. We can brush up on some dance lessons, and walk off with a trophy larger than the Stanley Cup after we knock them dead."

Clarence returned with a tray of coffee mugs, handing Alan's back to him and passing one to Denny. "Should I leave and come back?"

"No, no, Clarence," Denny told him. "Alan was in your cheering section for that singing competition, and now it's your turn to be in *our* cheering section. We’re going to be in a ballroom dance contest."

"Great!" Clarence exclaimed. "I bet Doris will come, too."

"I haven't even agreed yet, Denny," Alan protested. "For one thing, every ballroom contest I've seen requires mixed-sex pairs, discriminatory though that seems off the cuff."

"This one doesn't," Denny told Alan and Clarence. "It's being held at Club Café 209 over on Columbus Avenue. It's an all-male-couples competition." He rubbed his hands gleefully. "The winners get a trophy. And there are a few other establishments competing. The winners from all of them go into competition against each other for an even bigger trophy. And whoever wins that gets to go into a dance-off against the winners from New York and Philadelphia. *That* winning pair gets tickets to see the international ballroom and Latin dance championships. And a trophy big enough to hold a potted palm tree at the very least."

"What other bars are involved?" Alan asked mildly.

"Hmm." Denny thought with visible effort. "The Roxy, Jacques, Fritz's, a couple of other places. Club Café 209 seemed like the nicest one, so I thought I'd offer our services to their competition."

"You are aware, aren't you, Denny, that every one of the aforementioned establishments," Alan said in his best lawyer phrasing, "is a gay bar?"

Denny spluttered. "Well, where else do you think would be having a same-sex couples dance contest? Saint Ignatius' Church?"

"Since when does Denny Crane go to gay bars?"

"Since they got a ballroom dance contest," Denny proclaimed. "The one we're going to win. And don't tell me *you* don't go to gay bars."

"Pardon the bickering." Alan apologized to Clarence. Clarence merely held up his coffee to salute Alan. "Of *course* I go to gay bars. They're where one normally goes to meet other men. I don't normally spend much time finding *dance* partners in them, however, Denny, unless you're counting the horizontal mambo. Sorry, Clarence, I'm aware that's too much information."

"I'm just a fly on the wall." Clarence chuckled. "You two go right ahead."

"The only horizontal mambo, salsa, or foxtrot you'd better be doing is with me," Denny grumbled. "Now, dance contest. In, or out?"

"In, Denny," Alan sighed. "I have the feeling that the 'out' will take care of itself once everyone finds out."

* * *

Carl Sack was ensconced on Shirley Schmidt's office sofa, with Shirley beside him. "Did Denny invite you to the contest?" Carl asked.

"Oh, you mean, did Denny invite me to watch him win a trophy nearly as big as he thinks his cock is, dancing in a gay ballroom dance competition with Alan? Why yes, he did." Shirley laughed. "And I suppose he wants you in the audience, too. But the thing is, Carl… Denny *can* dance. He's incredibly light on his feet. He used to take me dancing all the time. I couldn't keep up with him."

"You're saying he and Alan could win this dance contest?"

Shirley stared Carl down. "I've seen Alan dance at some of the office parties. He's danced with me at a couple of them. He's not bad. I don't know what the competition will be, but if they're not all professional dance instructors, I think they have a shot."

Carl rubbed his face. "Maybe I should talk to Paul."

"Maybe you shouldn't. You know Paul has it in for Denny. This isn't about good or bad lawyering, Carl. This isn't about Alan's ethics or Denny's courtroom shenanigans or his memory. This isn't about ducking Denny's latest arrest or Alan's seducing the entire first-year associates pool in one night. It's dancing. There is absolutely nothing wrong with dancing."  
"Shirley, it's the primary name partner of this firm competing in a gay community contest at a gay bar. He's a huge name in town. That means this will get attention. Which means that everyone in town will be talking about Denny Crane dancing in gay bars with our most senior associate and troublemaker."

"What's bugging you there, Carl? Denny dancing in a gay bar or Denny dancing with Alan Shore? They might as well dance together; lord knows they're sleeping together."

"The lord may know it, Shirley, but that's different from the society page of the Globe reporting on it to all of our clients."

Shirley stood up. "I thought Paul was the only one in the office who had it out for them. Apparently I was mistaken. I thought I knew you better than that."

"I have nothing against Denny Crane and Alan Shore as a couple. In many respects they're probably made for each other. My only concern is the firm's reputation."

"You quit fighting that battle after Clarence Bell won that citywide singing contest in a dress. If Denny Crane goes into a ballroom dance competition, this firm, minus Paul, is cheering for him. It's the most innocuous public thing he's done in ages. And if they need a sponsor for this, we'll do that, too, and you'll back me up. If we don't, it's a bad message to our gay clients, and we do have them. Paul can pound sand, Carl. We can turn this into PR for the firm."

"As long as Alan doesn't turn it into a public announcement that they're getting engaged."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I'll bet you they do that soon enough anyway. Just go find out if Denny and Alan need a sponsor, and if they don't, find out if we can run an ad in the competition program."

"Why should I do it?"

"Because you're managing partner for litigation now. Because I am Schmidt, and I said so. And primarily because you're so gorgeous that whatever cute little man is selling advertising will be in love with you and give us a discount on a large ad. Go peddle your charm to the gay ad sales guys. My charm isn't as effective with them."

* * *

"All right, everyone – samba!" The instructor's enthusiasm was not so much infectious as frightening, but the class complied. Most of the crowd was made up of mixed couples, but there were two other male couples in the room, which reduced the pressure on Alan and Denny.   
The other thing that reduced the pressure was that unlike most of the class, Denny Crane actually *could* samba. For him, this was a refresher course, not day one of Latin dance instruction.

_"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread…"_ It was a modern version of the number, with a more pronounced beat; it certainly wasn't Keely Smith singing it.

Denny neatly executed a hip wriggle and turn that left the dancers to either side of Denny and Alan nearly in the dust. "Angie loved to samba."

_"And so I come to you, my love…"_

"Which wife was she?" Alan asked, managing to keep up but resolving to shed his jacket and tie before the next round.

_"My heart above my head…"_

"Number two. Or was it three? I forget."

The instructor clapped loudly and stopped the music. "Class. Over here. Mr. Crane and Mr. Shore are doing this *properly*. I want everyone to watch. If you don't mind?"

"Of course not," Denny said magnanimously. "Denny Crane. Samba King of Boston."

One of the other male dancers, slender and in his early twenties, hissed to his male dance partner, "Shit, we'll *never* win the citywide competition if they're in it. That old guy's gonna wipe the floor with us."

"Denny Crane is not some old guy," Denny growled, having heard the comment. "Denny Crane is the man. Come on, Alan – let's show the children how the grownups do this." He shed his own jacket and tie, inspiring a relieved Alan to do the same. "I'm gonna dance you right off the floor, runt."

 

* * *

"Who's coming?" Alan asked Clarence.

"Doris and me. Shirley Schmidt, Carl Sack, Jerry, Katie, and at least three of the guys from over in estates and trusts. Two women from corporate, and a couple of people from over in commercial real estate. Three paralegals at last check. We've got more bites coming. And Shirley Schmidt says you're to check your tuxedo and if you need anything at all you're to bill the firm for it. Shirt, new studs, shoes, whatever. She says whatever you do, win or lose, you're not going to embarrass the firm by not being better-dressed than the competition."

"Didn't she already buy an ad in the program?"

Clarence consulted his notes. "The firm has a full-page ad. She bought her own business card ad. She bought you and Carl Sack business card ads. She made a private donation to the charity the ticket sales are going to – one of the AIDS service groups – for five hundred dollars. If she could buy the judges, she'd do that, too. She's into this in a big way."

"I notice." Alan scanned a document on his desk, looking for errors. Seeing none, he initialed it. "It's nice to be loved. For once, anyway. Maybe I should just buy a whole new tuxedo before she changes her mind. In fact, have Tracy call the Zegna boutique on Newbury and get me an appointment for a fitting. What's five thousand dollars when Shirley Schmidt wants me to look fabulous?"

* * *

"Jerry, come on!" Katie Lloyd stuck her head into the office she shared with Jerry Espenson. You're missing it!"

Strains of the soundtrack from Evita were filling the office corridors.

"What's going on?"

Katie came over and tugged at his sleeve. "Alan and Denny are practicing their tango out in the hall for everyone."

Jerry came to the doorway of their office and looked out. "Does Alan have a rose in his mouth?"

"He does," Katie confirmed. "Aren't they amazing?" Denny dipped Alan backwards to such a depth that it looked as if either or both might not return to a vertical position, but the feat was indeed accomplished, to the applause of staff gathered near the water cooler. At the sight of Katie's bouncing on her toes and waving, Alan pulled the rose from his teeth and tossed it to Katie before Denny guided him into a turn.

"Only Alan," Jerry observed as Katie brought the flower to her face to smell it. The rose still had a full complement of thorns on its stem.

Denny tapped Carl's shoulder. It wasn't a request to dance; Carl had the CD player. "Next cut," he requested as he and Alan reached the end of the corridor at Shirley's office.

_"I ache for the touch of your lips, dear, But much more for the touch of your whips, dear."_ Denny was moving quickly, and bringing Alan through the paces with him.

"Oh god, they'd better not use that in competition," Shirley whispered.

"It's a gay bar," Carl reminded her. "It'll be big if they do."

_"You can raise welts like nobody else… As we dance to the Masochism Tango."_ Denny dipped Alan again, with definite aplomb.

"Why am I suddenly afraid it's 'their song'?" Shirley withdrew into her office, still watching her friend tangoing down the hall with his lover.

* * *

Paul Lewiston blew into Shirley's office with a fierce chill wind, like a wildly misdirected tornado. "Shirley."

She looked up from the documents on her desk, her eyes drilling holes into his face from above her reading glasses. "Yes, Paul?"

"What is this I hear? I cannot believe that you are not only not taking action, but are actively condoning –"

"Denny's ballroom dance contest? Of course I am, Paul. I think it's great publicity for the firm, unlike most of Denny's recent stunts. And it's an excellent opportunity for us to start attracting some serious gay money into the firm. Prenups, estate planning, residential real estate, no doubt a few big-ticket divorces… and plenty of small business owners. Find a drawback to this." She returned to reading her paperwork.

"Shirley, this firm's reputation –"

"This firm's reputation includes my support for civil rights causes, Paul, in case you've forgotten." She stood up, ready to fight. Paul Lewiston's obsessive irritation with all things Denny Crane had gotten out of hand ages ago, and she was tired of dealing with it. "If you have anything else you'd like to say to me?"

"I do." Lewiston straightened up as he faced off with her. "Denny Crane, the founder of this firm, is about to walk into the unsavory atmosphere of a… gay bar… with Alan Shore, who is already an embarrassment to this firm, and make it quite plain to the entire world that he… and that man… are…" Paul was too red in the face, more from anger than embarrassment, to finish his sentence.

"The entire world, Paul? Somehow I doubt that the news will be carried to Kuwait and Dubai. I'm not that sure the news will get outside of the region at best. And while Alan Shore may have his issues, he is, as he has been at every firm he's worked for, one of the biggest cash producers we have. You of all people should know what he's brought to the bottom line – you're the number cruncher. And he's winning completely unwinnable cases, which is even better than the money he's pulling in. By the way, gay bars are hardly unsavory places full of dope fiends and criminals. Most of the ones I've visited have been rather nice."

Paul looked at her oddly. "Why would *you*…"

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Paul. I've been to Club Café. I've had brunch there with my hairdresser and his husband. I've met my decorator at a couple of other clubs. They were all extremely sanitary, the drinks were decent, and my husbands all should have been as good-looking as the regular patrons. I failed to observe any criminal or indecent conduct at any of them, although a few wedding receptions I attended got a bit raunchy. There may be a few places of the sort you're envisioning in some crappy area of town, but that's not where the competition's being held. Really, Paul, you of all people should know better."

"And just what do you mean by *that*, Shirley?"

"Give it up, Paul. You're not exactly a secret any more; you're just a bitter old drama queen who can't handle that Denny's not in love with you. I can't exactly blame him for preferring Alan."

Paul sped out of her office even more quickly than he had barged in, nearly knocking Carl over in the process. "What's with Paul?"

Shirley sat back down. "Bitten by the green-eyed monster. Pay no attention to any opinion he ever renders about Denny or Alan any more, if you ask me. You didn't, but trust me on that."

"Oh?"

"Long story, Carl. He used to be jealous of me; when Alan got here and Paul put two and two together, he simply transferred the hate."

"Is there more to this story than I want to know?"

"More than you want to, but a good bit you'll need to. I'll tell you some other time. Have you found out who the contest judges are?"

"I did. Prepare to be amazed." He handed her the list.

"Oh, crap. Don't tell Denny."

"I thought you'd enjoy seeing the news." Carl watched Shirley crumple the paper in disgust and shove it in her wastecan.

* * *  
It was Thursday, the night of the competition, and Club Café 209 was filled with dancers, would-be dancers, dragooned assistants, and friends and fans of the individual dancers. Denny and Alan edged their way in, followed by their already-cheering entourage from the office. To Denny's infinite sorrow, Shirley had failed to wear her cheerleader outfit for the occasion, but he steeled himself to prepare for the blow of her cheering for them in the Gucci pantsuit she had worn to work that day.

The office cheering section fought for seating at a few adjoining tables and banquettes, Jerry Espenson leading the muscle required to relocate some smaller groups after placing his wooden cigar firmly between his teeth. Denny and Alan headed to the registration table to check in; to Alan's eminent satisfaction, both he and Denny were being checked out by some of the other dancers. Alan had been fairly certain he might be a subject of minor appreciation, given the reception he had received from a few of the Zegna staff after his final fitting, and he was pleased to be correct; it was always nice to feel desperately wanted, and it gave him a competitive edge. But it was far more pleasant to see a few of the others eyeing Denny; it confirmed his own judgment that Denny was still an extremely attractive man.

"Judges over here!" a voice called. Alan saw Clarence – no, make that Oprah – following the voice.

"Clarence?"

Clarence stopped for a moment as he came to Alan. "They wanted a judge from the audience – and you *know*, child, *everyone* loves Oprah. So they asked me. Not that I'm prejudiced about who's winning or anything." "Oprah" patted Alan's cheek and headed on to the judges' area.

Another judge came hard on Clarence's heels, her highly recognizable, bitchy, Southern whiskey voice calling out "wait up, you. I can't walk that fast!"

Denny turned around on his heel and went pale. "YOU. What the hell are *you* doing here?"

Gracie Jane snarled. "I got asked to judge. I've been in a few dance contests. I ate the other contestants for dinner, raw, with salt and pepper on them. What are *you* doing here, Crane? Last I saw of you, I was telling everyone how the DA revealed that you and your *lawyer* were sleeping together. Where is – oh, *there* he is. Guess you two think you're at a moot court competition, not a gay bar, huh?"

Alan intervened when he heard the altercation, elbowing his way over. "Gracie Jane, I have always made it a point never to hit a woman. I have no actual proof, however, that you aren't simply a really bad drag queen, which may just give me permission to do it."

"Oh, go play *lawyer* with your boyfriend, Shore!"

"I'll save that for later. Right now, however, I intend to win this competition with Denny whether *you* like it or not."

"I'll vote you down."

"The audience will have *you* raw, for dinner, with salt and pepper, if you do that. Because they're going to love us."

"We'll see about that," she snarled, stomping off.

* * *

_"Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars"_

It was the foxtrot competition.

_"Let me know what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars"_

"This is my song," Denny whispered as he and Alan danced.

_"In other words, hold my hand"_

"*Your* song?" Denny cut a sharp turn on the floor, Alan following suit to brief applause. 

"Used to be a starship captain, remember?"

_"In other words, darling, kiss me"_

"I used to be a space explorer myself. Wound up in a war, stayed behind in the desert."

"I hate when that happens." No one could ever say that Denny didn't have the footwork to do the grapevine; Alan hoped his own footwork was even half as good as Denny's. The crowd seemed to like it, judging from the reactions.

When the music ended, the judges began their scoring of the couples. Alan and Denny had straight nines from everyone until the last judge, Gracie Jane. "Three. They were talking while they were dancing. I hate that."

The crowd, it seemed, hated Gracie Jane. Her audience rating there was significantly lower than her show's was, apparently, given the chorus of boos and hisses from the assembled spectators. Then Gracie Jane made the mistake of standing up, steamed, to address her audience. "*I* think—"

Someone didn't care what she thought, judging from the nearly full glass that went flying into her dress from the sidelines. Clarence, seeing his cue, moved from his judge's seat to thwack her soundly with "Oprah's" purse, to considerable and sustained clapping. He returned to his seat.

"Well, I'm leaving!" Gracie Jane stomped out of the bar as the competition's producers huddled and as the audience took to its feet, cheering loudly.

Finally, they emerged, with the announcement that the competition would resume, one judge down, and that Gracie Jane's scores of all contestants were being voided.

"Samba," the announcer called, trying to restore order to the crowd. "Last competitive dance of the evening." The music started, and Denny frowned.

"I can't dance to that," he said very quietly to Alan.

"Why not?" Alan asked, a laugh in his voice. "Copacabana sucks, yes, but…"

"Dancing to Barry Manilow? Alan, I'm sleeping with you. We're dancing in a gay dance contest. You know I love you. But I am *not* queer enough to dance to Barry Manilow. People will *see* me dancing to Barry Manilow."

"*Nobody's* queer enough to dance to Barry Manilow," Alan pronounced cheerfully. "But there's a big, fat trophy with your name on it at the end of this song." He took Denny's hand. "I'll lead."

"You will not," Denny said firmly. "Denny Crane *always* leads. And Denny Crane *always* wins." He pulled Alan onto the floor. "Besides, Denny Crane – Samba King of Boston."

Denny moved as if he were triple-jointed, as if he were a man half his girth, as if his life, not just his reputation, depended on it. His hips swayed, his feet slid across the floor, his arms flowed from his shoulders out into the universe. He pulled his bowtie open, and then unbuttoned his collar – there were wolf whistles. His tuxedo jacket went across the dance floor to a spot just shy of Shirley's chair, to even more whistles. And then he went after Alan's tie, leaving it hanging around Alan's neck. Remembering the samba class, Alan shed his own jacket and lobbed it to "Oprah".

Clarence might be straight, but "Oprah" was a ham. She grabbed Alan's jacket, stood, and hugged it, then blew Alan a kiss, before sitting again.

The spectators were on their feet now, ignoring the rest of the dancers, following Shirley's and Jerry's chant of "Denny! Denny!" Katie and Clarence's friend Doris were standing on chairs, waving their arms, as Denny pulled a not-precisely-by-the-textbook hip grind against Alan's back – Angie had always liked the move, and so, it seemed, did the audience. They finished to a call by the announcer asking the spectators to refrain from running to the dance floor.

"Oprah's" vote had been obvious. "Ten. Because I got the jacket. Eleven if you come with it, hot stuff." It was a safe bet that Alan would forgive the comment later. Even Denny would; Clarence wasn't a threat, but an amusement to him.

Other judges were similarly persuaded to give the highest mark, especially one who had been eyeing Alan when he and Denny had come into the building.

Then came the dance instructor judge, who was not the one who had taught Alan and Denny. "I should deduct a point for being late on the dance floor." There were boos. "Also, the grinding was a bit excessive as a technical matter." Hisses. "But as Weird Al Yankovic says, 'the boy can dance.' I gave them a ten."

The announcer gave up on trying to maintain calm as the Crane, Poole, and Schmidt fan base came swarming onto the floor, in a general frenzy of hugging and kissing. "Hang on!" Denny begged. "We can't leave until we get the trophy! They haven't given it to us yet!"

"Got one better for you," "Oprah" announced, kissing Denny hard enough on the cheek to leave a huge and obvious lipstick print. "You've been kissed by Oprah. Who needs anything else?" Jerry was hopping wildly, hands clenched above his head in a victory shake, purring loudly.

Carl and Shirley hung back. "Denny's still got it," Carl said, just a bit sadly. He looked at Shirley, who was still staring at Denny with a look of wistful pleasure.

"He does," she told him. "He was always the best dancer. I loved going out with him." She shook herself out of her reverie. "But you know, he's got Alan. I, on the other hand," she said, wrapping her arms around Carl's arm, "have *you*. Which is how I like things."

"You're sure."

Shirley made a wry face. "Carl. Denny just won a samba contest grinding on Alan to Copacabana. Would *you* dance like that to Copacabana?"

"Barry Manilow? Hell, no. I'm straight. Straight men do *not* dance to Barry Manilow. *Especially* while grinding on other guys."

"Then you understand my point." She smiled. "Grab them. I think we need to get them some drinks."

* * *

"My place?" Denny asked as he and Alan carried the trophy to Denny's car.

"I planned on it."

"Good. Do you think we can sleep with the trophy tonight?"

Alan sighed. Then he laughed. "I guess we can sleep with it. Just tonight, though. Or else you can grind on it instead of me."

"Thank you, Alan. Oh – I entered us in the citywide contest."

"You didn't."

"I did. Bigger trophy. Denny Crane always wins."

Alan laughed, and then leaned over to kiss Denny on the cheek – he couldn't reach much else with the trophy between them. "Yes, Denny, you do. You always do."


End file.
